Jacob's Day Out
by wavesparkle7217
Summary: Jacob goes to visit Hugo outside the jail. How'd he get there? Where'd he go?


The red numbers on the bedside radio alarm clock flickered briefly before turning to _4:42_. A hand hovered over it, the hand's owner clearly already awake and cognizant of the time. The fingers deftly negated the alarm before it had a chance to sound and disturb the near-perfect morning stillness. The rustling of the cheap motel sheets filled the ears of the man who had turned off the clock radio's alarm. Bare, tanned feet emerged and were placed on the threadbare carpet.

The feet were narrow, with low arches, and the nails on the long, straight toes were perfect and unblemished, like bleached sea shells, unmolested by fungus. They were smooth-skinned and nearly hairless, with only small tufts of sun-bleached blond hair, one on each big toe. They smelled like sunshine and fresh air, and left the tanginess of salt water and the overripe sweetness of mangoes in the mouth.

The owner of the feet and hand was a man of simple pleasures. He enjoyed weaving, swimming, eating fish, and discussing philosophy. The tremulous dawn, where the sticky heat and oppressive brilliance of daylight hovered, trembling, gathering on the brim of the horizon, ready to spill over at the slightest provocation, waited, was his favourite moment of the day, and he always awoke to enjoy it.

He arose and walked to the washroom, placing his feet carefully without thinking of it. His instinct was to avoid sharp shells and the detritus of the sea when he walked. He flicked on a light switch, standing in front of the white porcelain sink for a moment before turning the knob and letting the water spill from the pipes into his hands. He let the loamy smelling shaving cream spout into his hands and he daubed it onto his tanned cheeks with a air of delicacy, as if he weren't used to such conventions. The sharp blade of a disposable razor flashed in his hand, then along his cheek bones in a rhythm in sync with his breathing. He flicked his wrist, sending the sea foam and fragments of dry, thirsty grass into the crystal trickle in the basin. The hair, cut from his face, flowed out of the white sink and into oblivion.

He switched out the electric sun and paced down the short, well-trodden path to the door. Opening it onto the bright, barren motel hallway, he leaned down to take his newspaper. Flicking it open, he glanced at the date, then at his watch, setting the latter. _May 15th, 2007. _Good. He had six hours and twenty-eight minutes until he had to be in a cab outside the LA County Jail.

He shut the door again and went to the hotel's closet. Opening the doors, he saw that the jeans and t-shirt had transformed into a grey turtle neck shirt, a black sports coat, and a darker pair of jeans with bleach stains. Perfect for a balmy Los Angeles day of waiting in taxis.

He opened the curtains and watched the sun rise before leaving the room for good. He used three flights of stairs to enter the motel lobby, where he reached into his pocket for the debit card he had acquired the day before. It wasn't there. Instead, there was a handful of jelly beans.

He glanced up at the pimpled, sleep-rumpled teenage desk clerk, and figured they were good enough. He placed the five sugared confections on the lacquered plastic wood, confidently, and walked across the lobby.

"Hey baby, how much do those buns cost?" a cat call came from the street corner as the man hailed a taxi. Turning a _death-comes-hence _glance on the homeless woman, the man opened the door and stepped in, sliding across. The driver turned to ask where the tanned stranger was going.

"Please just drive. You will know when we arrive, Ling," the man told the Asian in the driver's seat.

"Yes sir," the driver replied, secretly thrilled a the prospect of the money could con out of this guy.

The man in the back of the taxi sat back and watched the city pass outside of the grimy window. He saw a park bench, and he got out of the taxi, giving a cordial nod to the driver. It was only after the man had left that Ling realized he had not been paid.

The man stood by a tree for a few minutes before stepping out into the path of a young black girl.

"Hello," he greeted the young girl, with a charming smile that revealed straight, shiny, white teeth against the tanned skin and re-grown tawny stubble. It was a smile that inspired trust.

She returned it, unevenly, not sure she liked the attention of this charming man in the park.

"You have the guitar," he pointed out when she said nothing in return. "I came to pick it up."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, relieved. "You're the one I was supposed to meet, from the Goodwill!"

"I do come from goodwill," the man smiled, the disarming, unaffected manner of his stance and voice relaxing the girl without her consciously noticing. He took the guitar from her hand, opening the case to see the correct contents were there. Satisfied, he returned to the cab stand, and though he knew he had four hours, eight minutes, and fifteen seconds before his next appointment.

The cab driver was waiting for him, with a tire iron in hand and an extremely angry scowl on his face.

"There is only one end, Ling; until then, progress," the tawny man told the swarthy one, holding up a mollifying hand in front of him.

"How you know my name cheap American man?" the cab driver shouted, advancing.

"It was written on your cab license," the light man told the dark, advancing storm cloud of a man.

"You right," the Chinese man paused. "But you still no pay me!"

The fair man ran a hand along one stubbled cheek and the Chinaman's eyes became glassy. The Asian blinked, refocused, and returned to his taxi, the tawny stranger in tow.

Sitting in the back seat of the cab while the driver tried to navigate the warren of streets crowded not only by the noontide traffic but by a flaming four-car pile-up on the freeway on the way to the LA County jail, the man pulled out a Nokia flip phone and began to make a call.

"Hello, I would like to ensure the release of Hugo Reyes.... yes... yes sir...." the phone cut out as the cab passed the site of he accident, and the driver of the taxi swore at the carnage and the fact it was holding up traffic.

"Damn this stupid American traffic!"

"Wait here."

"In front of the jail?"

"Yes, please. There is someone who needs to meet me."

The cab driver cut the engine after a while. People were waving at him, but he left the 'engaged' light on to discourage them. After a while, he tried to make conversation with his mysterious passenger.

"So you know my name is Ling. What is yours?"

"Jacob," the tawny man replied, "but please don't mention it while my acquaintance is in the car."

The cab driver was about to ask why, but he was distracted by a man who looked as if he had fallen into a giant chocolate cake and eaten his way out.

"Please don't say anything. What I am about to tell this man will save many lives," Jacob told the cab driver as the thought began to form that some comment should be made.

Jacob situated the guitar case in the middle seat of the cab, waiting for Hugo Reyes to open the door. He closed his eyes for a moment, seeing instead of the confines of the yellow cab, the dark coolness of his home. Instead of the sound of cars on the asphalt, he heard waves crashing, endlessly washing the sandy beaches of his home. Instead of the acrid, polluted air, he tasted dampness and salt and mango juice. Instead of the hard lines of the guitar case under his fingertips, he felt the strings of his tapestry. Instead of the sourness of humanity, he smelled the sweetness of hard clay and sizzling, fresh-caught fish. But he would be home soon enough. He still had things to do.

He opened his eyes as the rotund Hispanic man opened the car door.

"Oh," Reyes paused, "Sorry, I didn't know it was taken, dude."

"Actually, I'm only going a few blocks, if you want to share," Jacob replied, knowing Hugo Reyes was the sort to never wish to inconvenience another. And a few blocks was all it would take to convince this lost sheep to return to his flock.

"Cool. You sure?"

Jacob was sure all right. "Come on in," he told the younger man. Reyes sat in the empty seat and Jacob signalled the cab driver to pull away from the curb. As the wove among the other cars, Reyes opened a fruit-roll-up like it was his last lifeline. In this world, it might have been. Jacob needed this one to return home with him.

"You want some? It's cherry," the round man offered the thin one, hopefully, as if the simple act of sharing food would join them in some way.

"No, thanks," Jacob told his fellow passenger, knowing that the act of sharing foos often was a sign of some sort of tie. Food, after all, was life, and to share it was a greivous error except when exceptionally well thought out. And Reyes had not thought this out at all. It was simply instinct, and not a healthy one.

"So what were you in for?" Reyes ventured.

"Excuse me?" Jacob asked, startled out of his inner thoughts.

"Jail? I was there because I shot three guys..." the other man paused to chew a bite of his sweet. "Well, I didn't really. I guess they figured it out. What about you?"

Jacob smiled slightly. "I wasn't in jail."

"Then what were you doing sitting outside the prison in a cab?"

"I was waiting for you, Hugo." Jacob dazzeled Reyes with his all-knowing smile, the one that said, even if the world were coming to an end, _it's okay. I'm here; no need to worry. Just take my hand and I will protect you._

"Oh?!" Reyes exclaimed, "Then you must be dead."

Jacob added a little bit of a surprised chuckle to his smile, and reassured the other man. "I'm definitely not dead."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"I want to know why you won't go back to the island." There was silence in the cab for a moment as Reyes digested this information.

"Because I am cursed."

"Is that so?" Jacob asked, even though he knew Reyes felt his use of the numbers was a terrible thing he never should have done.

"Uh-huh. That's why the plane crashed, my friends died: Libby, Charlie. And now they visit me and I can't make it stop."

"What if you weren't cursed? What if you were blessed?" Jacob threw out.

Pensively, but frightened, Reyes said, "How do you mean 'blessed'?"

"Well you get to talk to the people you've lost, seems like a pretty wonderful thing to me," Jacob said, a hint of otherworldly sadness behind his oceanic eyes.

"Sure it's wonderful apart from the part where I'm crazy," Reyes told the stranger in the cab, not sure why he felt he could trust this man.

"I got some news for you, Hugo," Jacob told the younger man seriously, "And you're just going to have to take my word on this. You are not crazy."

Frightened, confused, stirred, Reyes breathed, "Who are you, dude?

"I'm just up here on the left," Jacob told the taxi driver, and they pulled to the side of the road. The cab rolled to the curb and stopped. Jacob turned to Reyes and said, "Ajira Airways Flight 316 out of LAX leaves in 24 hours. All you have to do is be on that plane. It's your choice, Hugo. You don't have to do anything you don't want to," and, before exiting the cab, he touched the other man's shoulder.

"Wait! You forgot your guitar!" Reyes called.

"It's not my guitar," the tawny stranger answered, and closed the door.

Jacob watched the taxi drive away, a slight smile lingering on his lips. All was well, for now. He turned, and tapped his watch, walking into a bush. He stepped out into the sweet sunshine of his home, and answered the calling of the birds. He had a few things to check before the day was over.

He watched the man the Island had healed climb out of the ditch where the leader of the Others had shot him, then, returning to the bush, he watched the whiny girl's brother fall in a yellow bush plane down a cliff.

After watching a group of the 815 survivors battle a Dharma polar bear, Jacob was satisfied that, at least for the moment, things were working out well. He returned home, emerging from his travel from between the toes of the statue of Tawret. He was so pleased to be home he leaned over and kissed the cold marble before climbing into the sea and entering his home, where he spilled cold soup on himself.

He smiled enigmatically and returned his clothes to his chest, replacing them with his old garments to check his fish traps.


End file.
